the language of flowers and death
by devilberry
Summary: And the little boy tries to remember what he can't. He tries very hard to feel something.


The flowers are always blue. They've never smelled very nice, but they've always been so pretty to look at.

Backs cracking and eyes fixed to the sky, I wonder if we can get any higher.

"Hey."

"I'm reading. Please leave me alone. Go to sleep. It's alright."

"But…I want to talk to you."

He laughs. "We never talk."

And he's right. We sit and watch each other. He reads. I admire the flowers.

(God, they're so blue. I've never seen a flower that color, yet…these are the only flowers I ever remember seeing...)

"Can we start? Talking, I mean."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I can't think of anything to say."

"Oh."

"Go to sleep. It's alright."

He's smart, this boy. I know he can think. Black hair thick and messy lying in a pool on his skull and protecting that big brain of his. Could probably speak like a poet if he wanted to, but I suppose it's always the quiet ones. The loud ones have no time to think because they always talk. Can't let a thought stew in their heads and grow beautiful, they have to let it out the minute they think it up. Stop me before I get in too deep. This isn't my area.

I walk to the edge of the hill and lift my face over the cliff side. I'm leaning too far forward, and I'm begging the wind to blow across my cheek. Nothing.

(But the leaves and the trees are shaking and dancing and they're so loud as they scrape against each other. Green and vibrant they move. Always the same.)

The grass is soft and lush beneath me as I stand, too warm and too cold and I can't feel a breath of wind anywhere on my body but that boy's shivering. Lush. Everything is so alive here. _Too _alive.

My arms spread like wings. Fingers twitching and curling at the air around me. They're looking for something. A drop of sunshine, a ghost of a storm, a kiss of rain, a hint of a memory.

(God, I feel so fucking stupid.)

The clouds are perfect white bunches of cotton above my skull. The same exact size and shape, about half a dozen I can see. Not enough to cause alarm for bad weather, but enough to block out the sun's whitehot rays and keep anyone who could feel it from getting too warm.

Birds chirp. Squirrels hurry from tree to tree. Deer hide away in the forest, pretending like there would _possibly _be anyone to hunt them down and lay a finger or a bullet on them. Bees buzz. Hovering close to the flowers. Too close.

P

E

R

F

E

C

T

The bugs drift closely to the blue plants that spring up from the ground in rows like soldiers. Their putrid scent puts off the bees, and they refuse to pollinate the weeds. (Because, yes, they're bright and gorgeous and if I look at them too long my eyes burn, but they are _weeds_.) And I'd wonder how they managed to not go dead, but then I realize that it's impossible for things to go dead. Stay dead. Not here. _Too perfect to die._

(I lean closer to the edge.)

Looking over at him, amongst the ocean of tall strong trees and the bright green grass and those _fucking flowers, _I wonder what he's thinking about. He won't tell me. I wonder if he's even been thinking at all.

(I still can't feel a thing.)

I…remember. Yes, I remember. We used to talk. A lot, all the time. Hell, he would talk when I wished he wouldn't. He'd yell, he'd scream, I would hate him. God, I'd kill for that kind of hate. Just so there would be…_something_. Anything other than the stink of sicksweet flowers and the sound of leaves dancing and pages turning.

(One more step…)

There's a bit more to it, I think. Something…soft, maybe. Warm. Piano keys scrape against my brain as I try to remember.

(Over the edge there's a hole. Big and black, it opens wide for me. Like a smile. I could never hope to stay away.)

When I fall, I fall very fast. Arms whip around me as if I'm deluded enough to think that I could fly. No, never. I can only ever hope to crash.

If nothing else, it wastes time. Dying. The slow decent into the Abyss is long and soft. Still empty. I feel nothing. Not even a drop of fear or a gust of wind or that sinking feeling you get in your stomach when you fall. I just have something to do.

My body splatters against a rock at the bottom. There was never any beautiful black hole to eat me alive.

I break. I break all over. Arms bent and legs twisted and oh God, I don't know if I can move. My hair is slick and the blood is trickling out of me and I can feel every drop as it leaves my veins. And it hurts, hurts, hurts and I'm bleeding and bleeding and today is the most beautiful day I can ever remember.

I open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out are coughs and wheezes. And a smile.

Pain is such a wonderful thing. It's such a strong, powerful, bright thing. It sticks out, it's noticeable, memorable. I will remember this moment for the rest of forever, just like I remember every other time I have laid myself out against this rock and awaited my judgment that never did come. _Forgive me father, for I have sinned and sinned and sinned. _I laugh, but I choke on my own blood before the noise can bubble up to the surface.

"Leo…" I breathe out, slowly and painfully.

"I'm reading. Please leave me alone. Go to sleep. It's alright."

And my laughter turns to sobs.


End file.
